


Upside-Down

by tinzelda



Series: SH AU [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:09:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU (first in a series of three) in which the boys meet and (ahem!) get to know one another rather rapidly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upside-Down

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to flying_android for expending so much time and energy as a beta for this story. Thanks for helping me make the story flow better and for making sure the boys sound like true Brits!

“I’ll be another hour… Maybe two,” Watson guessed, glancing at his watch.

“So I’ll make reservations for eight?” Mary asked. The hope in her voice made Watson cringe.

“No, I meant I’ll be leaving the hospital then. It’ll be another forty minutes before—”

“Oh, John!”

“I’m sorry, Mary, but what can I do?” Watson thought of the day two weeks before when Mary had been the one swamped with work and had called to cancel their dinner plans. It had been a relief not to be the one backing out. Now that the university semester was over and all of her students’ papers were graded, she seemed to have forgotten what it was like not to have even a moment to call one’s own. “Sarah’s still on maternity leave, and Gerald has the flu. I can’t simply leave when there are—”

“I know,” Mary replied. She spoke quietly, but Watson could tell that she was angry.

“If we moved in together we’d see more of each other.”

Mary’s laugh was tinny with the bad mobile reception. “Let’s not talk about that just now.”

“You promised you’d think about it,” he reminded her. He couldn’t understand why Mary was so resistant to the idea of sharing a flat. Trying to make plans was so difficult, but if they lived together they would be sure of at least seeing one another every day.

Watson couldn’t tell if the sound he heard was a sigh or simply static. He decided to change the subject. “Dinner tomorrow?” he suggested. “No, wait. I have the evening shift tomorrow. Thursday? I don’t work on Thursday. We could spend the whole day—”

“I’ll have to think about that, too,” Mary said primly. “Call me tomorrow.”

“I will,” Watson promised. Mary disconnected before he could say anything else. He slid the phone into his pocket and walked slowly inside. Perhaps he should stop to see Mary on his way home, even if it was late. He could bring her some flowers.

The moment he entered the busy A&E corridor, Watson forgot about his conversation with Mary. There were too many other problems competing for his attention. He had five patients under his care at that moment, but before he could head toward the room of the first he heard someone calling after him. He turned and, seeing a harried nurse striding his direction, wracked his brain for her name.

“Dr. Watson,” she said breathlessly. “Can you take room seven?”

Watson hesitated only a moment before agreeing.

The nurse sagged slightly in relief. “Head injury. He’s unconscious, unresponsive. Brought in by ambulance. Dr. Camden examined him, but then room twelve went into cardiac arrest, and she asked me to find you.” The nurse—Watson still couldn’t remember her name—continued to recite the few details known about the patient while she led the way to room seven. He had been found in an alley and had been unconscious for at least an hour.

Upon first glance, Watson thought the man must be homeless. He was so dishevelled, and his clothes seemed like cast-offs meant for other, larger bodies. Not to mention the fact that he had been found in an alley. But when Watson began examining him for injuries other than the obvious knot on the back of his head, he reconsidered. Under his loose clothing the man was very fit. Surprisingly muscular. His hair hadn’t seen a comb in days, and it must have been even longer since he’d shaved, but the man was basically clean and healthy.

“What on earth happened to you?” Watson muttered as he examined the lump on the man’s skull. He turned to the nurse. “Do we have a name?”

“No, no wallet. Nothing in his pockets when he was found.”

“Nothing from the police? Looking for a missing person?”

“Doctor, his eyes opened,” the nurse murmured.

“Oh?” Watson leaned over the patient, whose eyelids fluttered. Watson asked, “Are you with us?”

This time the man’s eyes stayed open. They were large and brown, the pupils widely dilated. Watson touched his shoulder. “Can you tell me your name?”

There was no response.

Watson shone a light into the man’s eyes. The pupils contracted slightly but not as much as Watson would have liked.

The man mumbled something incoherent, and Watson gave his shoulder a pat. “It’s all right.” Watson said. “You’ve had a rather nasty bump on the head, but you’re going to be fine.”

There seemed to be understanding in the man’s eyes, but he didn’t answer.

“What’s your name?”

Again he said something that Watson could not quite understand. “Home? We’ll get you home just as soon as we can.”

“No, _Holmes_ ,” the patient insisted. “My name is Holmes.”

“Ah, good.” Watson checked Holmes’s eyes again and was more satisfied with the pupils’ responsiveness. “Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Holmes?”

“I was hit on the head.”

Watson smiled. “Yes, we gathered that. Can you tell me how it happened?”

“I was mugged.”

There had been the smallest hesitation before the answer. It made Watson suspicious.

“Mugged?” Watson asked. “Did they get your wallet then?”

Holmes looked mildly surprised—he seemed to register Watson’s disbelief.

“Did you see what they hit you with?”

“No, they were behind me. I didn’t see them at all.”

“And you fell, unconscious, immediately after you were hit on the head?”

“Yes,” Holmes answered, frowning.

“Then how do you know they mugged you? And how do you know it was a ‘they’ and not a ‘he’ that hit you? Or a ‘she’ for that matter.”

Holmes glared at Watson, who smiled blandly in response. “I’m merely trying to understand what happened. The more I know about your injury, the better I can care for you.”

Holmes crossed his arms over his chest, still frowning. “I do not know for certain that they intended to steal anything from me. I proposed it only as a likely reason for someone wanting to strike an innocent passerby on the head. I can, however, be certain that there was more than one person because I heard three distinct sets of footsteps. I started to turn but was struck before I could see much of anything.”

“Much of anything? So you did see something.”

“My dear doctor,” Holmes said, clearly growing very annoyed at Watson’s persistent questioning. “What is it you’re trying to discover?”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There are some things I cannot tell you,” Holmes snapped.

Watson considered this. “What does that mean precisely? Should I be concerned? Should I call the police?”

“I’ve done nothing illegal, if that’s what you mean,” Holmes said without hesitation.

Watson studied Holmes’s face and decided he was telling the truth, but the secrecy still worried him. He pondered the problem for several moments. “I’m going to order a CAT scan.”

Holmes grimaced. “Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?”

“No,” Watson answered. “Not at all. We have no idea how long you were lying in that alley.”

In truth, Watson did believe that the test was a sensible precaution. He also knew that even if he ordered the scan immediately, it would take quite some time for Holmes to move up in the queue, giving Watson some time to figure out what to do with this unmanageable patient.

“Wait here,” Watson ordered. When he left the room, the first thing he did was find a security guard and ask him to keep an eye on room seven. He didn’t want Holmes slipping away.

*****

Three hours and a dozen phone calls later, Watson was no closer to understanding Mr. Holmes. The scan showed nothing seriously wrong; Holmes had a concussion and nothing more. Watson had been able to verify with the police that he was not suspected of any crime. He had even spoken to the policeman who had been called to the alley where Holmes had been found. When Watson asked about the specific circumstances surrounding the injury, the officer became evasive and surly.

“I had no idea who he was,” the policeman said. “So I just sent him along in the ambulance.”

What did that mean: no idea who he was? Should the policeman have recognized Holmes? Did he work for the police? It seemed unlikely to Watson that he’d work in any official capacity. He seemed more like the artistic type—eccentric and unpredictable.

The only thing the policeman had been perfectly clear about was that the hospital was to release Mr. Holmes as soon as he was well enough to leave. Watson studied Holmes’s chart. There was no other reason to hold this patient. Watson should send him on his way. He wished he had even the smallest hope the discharge instructions would be followed, but suspicion that a patient will take terrible care of himself was no grounds for holding him captive.

Just as he was about to accept that he would have to let Holmes leave, Watson saw a few blanks in the admittance forms.

“You didn’t give a name for your emergency contact.”

“Isn’t that a moot point since I’m already here?” Holmes countered.

Watson fixed him with a glare. “Is there someone at home to look after you?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” Watson said. He lifted his pen. “The name please?”

Holmes hesitated. “I can look after myself.”

Watson paused. The words had been said in an odd tone—an odd mixture of vulnerability and bravado that he could not ignore. He sat on a stool and rolled it over beside Holmes so that he could put his clipboard down on the bed. Reminding himself to be patient, he said, “There must be someone. We have to have a name.”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson.”

“And who is that?”

“My landlady.”

Watson frowned, staring at the form but not really seeing it. Did Holmes not have any family? No friends who could check in on him?

“Doctor?” Holmes said.

Watson looked up to find Holmes watching him. When Watson didn’t respond, Holmes’s eyes lowered to where Watson’s hand had wrapped itself around Holmes’s wrist. Watson pulled his hand away, surprised at himself. He could feel Holmes’s gaze. Flustered, he grabbed his pen to print Mrs. Hudson’s information into the appropriate boxes and looked to the next blank on the page. “You didn’t put your mobile number on the form.”

“I haven’t got one.”

“You haven’t got a mobile phone?”

Holmes shook his head. “I have a landline… somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” Watson repeated. “How do you communicate if you don’t even know where your phone is?”

“E-mail.”

Watson sighed, imagining how difficult it would be to type a message while overcome with dizziness and nausea. “Perhaps you could locate this telephone of yours so that if you begin to feel worse you could call someone?”

“I could do that, yes,” Holmes agreed.

Watson could tell that he was being humoured, and it was infuriating. He couldn’t understand why this particular patient bothered him so very much. Uncooperative and antagonistic, Holmes was precisely the type of patient Watson was usually relieved to discharge, but instead he couldn’t help feeling responsible. Protective. He still had so many questions about Holmes and couldn’t shake the sense that he might be in some sort of trouble. Watson could tell that Holmes was very intelligent, but at the same time there was a certain naivete about him that was worrisome.

Watson realized there was nothing more he could do to stall, and he shouldn’t want to. Watson’s replacement had long since arrived at the hospital, and Holmes was his last remaining patient. Watson should release him and go home—his interest in Holmes was tending toward some kind of morbid fascination with the man. Gritting his teeth, Watson signed the discharge papers.

He saw Holmes as he left a few minutes later. The man gave an impudent mock salute as he passed Watson in the hall. Watson tried to push his vague fears out of his mind, but even on the train ride home he found himself still thinking about his strange patient. He forced his thoughts toward his own small concerns. _Check the post_ , he said to himself. _Walk the dog. Take a shower. Get some sleep._

It wasn’t until he was falling into bed that Watson remembered his intention to stop and see Mary. He sighed. If she would only listen to him. They could move in together very soon. Why delay? It would be so comfortable. On nights like this she would be right there, waiting for him when he got home. If he didn’t have to pay the rent on his own anymore, he could start to save money toward opening his own practice. No more irregular hospital shifts. No more commuting—he could find a nice quiet office somewhere close by. And no more patients like his troubling Mr. Holmes.

*****

The next morning Watson made two decisions. First, he would go and talk to Mary. He must apologize for missing dinner and, if she seemed to be in a good mood, try once again to convince her to move in with him. Second, he would have to contact Mr. Holmes. Technically Watson was no longer accountable, but he couldn’t stop worrying. He knew himself well enough to know it would bother him until he did something about it.

He pulled a copy of Holmes’s discharge papers out of his bag and dialed the phone number on the form. He was not surprised when there was no answer. He considered trying to contact Holmes’s landlady but didn’t like the idea of involving someone else. Finding the street address, Watson looked it up online. Holmes’s flat was in the same general direction as the hospital and Mary’s house, and it was fairly close to a tube station. Watson would have time to check on Holmes, visit Mary, and still get to the hospital in time for his shift.

It wasn’t until he was standing on the steps of 221B Baker Street that he began to feel foolish. Holmes would most likely be fine and would not welcome any intrusive concern. Watson almost turned and walked away but knew if he did he would spend the afternoon dialing up Holmes’s number whenever he had a spare moment.

He knocked and waited, feeling a flush crawling up his neck. The door flew open and there stood Holmes, looking just as unkempt as he had the day before but certainly in no danger of lapsing into a concussive coma. An impish smile spread across his face. Watson was certain Holmes was mocking him, but somehow the thought didn’t bother him. In fact, he almost smiled in response.

“Dr. Watson, what a pleasant surprise,” Holmes teased. He turned and ran up the staircase.

Watson was at a loss until he heard a shout from above: “For heaven’s sake, come in!”

After climbing the long flight of stairs, Watson peeked through a pair of tall doors and saw Holmes, still grinning in that mischievous way. Watson took a tentative step into the room. The smell of the place—tobacco and old books—made him think of his grandfather’s study, always a comfortable, welcoming place. But there was some other faint scent there too, something Watson couldn’t put his finger on until he saw the abandoned takeaway containers sitting precariously on a pile of papers: curry.

One corner of the room was dominated by a massive desk, which displayed a startling variety of computer monitors and technical paraphernalia. The area surrounding this equipment was relatively free of clutter, but the rest of the room was utter chaos. It looked as though violent winds had swept through a museum of antiquities and then deposited their contents here.

Watson bumped into a tiny, three-legged table on which rested a beautiful violin. Just before the instrument tipped off and crashed to the floor, he caught it. He glanced up, ready to apologize, and Holmes came near to take the violin and set it down on a nearby armchair. His elbow brushed against the front of Watson’s shirt as he straightened.

“Don’t worry, my dear doctor,” Holmes said quietly. “You’ll never navigate your way through here without running into something or other.”

Watson turned to look at Holmes and realized that they were standing rather too close. It was awkward. Or rather it should be. Holmes’s manner was so disconcerting that basic things like appropriate personal boundaries seemed irrelevant. Watson remembered how he’d grabbed Holmes’s wrist in the hospital without even realizing he’d done it. Clearing his throat, he took a small step away. “Did you find your phone?”

Holmes leaned close and planted a kiss on Watson’s lips.

“W— What was that?” Watson stuttered.

“I should think it was self-explanatory.”

“But…” Watson shook his head. “But why?”

“Why? Whatever do you mean? I thought we had established quite a rapport while I was in your hospital.”

Holmes rested a hand on Watson’s shoulder, and Watson shrugged it off. Suddenly Watson realized how close to one another they were still standing and put several feet of space between them.

Smiling, Holmes asked, “Why else would you be here?”

“Because of your concussion. I—”

“Really?” Holmes smirked. “Do you make house calls often?”

“No, but I thought—”

“Have you ever, since you began work as a physician, made a house call?”

Watson let out a huff of frustration. “No, but—”

“Has there been some sudden change in the policies either of your hospital or of the National Health Service that allows for the expenses incurred while making visits to discharged patients?”

The question made Watson laugh in spite of himself. Holmes was exasperating, but he had a bizarre charm that was hard to resist.

“Thank goodness,” Holmes said. “I had begun to worry that you had no sense of humour at all.”

Holmes approached again, but Watson put a hand on his chest to keep him at bay. Holmes’s body felt warm and solid through the cotton of his shirt. Watson wanted to pull his hand away, but he was afraid of what Holmes would do.

“You said you lived alone and I was concerned,” Watson explained. “Your flat is on my way to work and I thought—”

“Ah,” Holmes said with great satisfaction. “You could not stop thinking about me.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Watson admitted, unable to keep himself from laughing again. “But it does not follow that I expected you to—”

Holmes knocked away the restraining hand and stole another kiss, wrapping his arms around Watson’s waist so that he couldn’t escape. Watson was shocked to find that he didn’t _want_ to escape—it was an amazingly distracting kiss. Holmes’s lips were warm and soft. His tongue was gentle and teasing one moment, insistently forceful the next. It left Watson breathless.

Holmes pressed closer, leaned in to lick Watson’s ear, and whispered, “My mouth wants to do filthy things to your cock.”

The words made Watson gasp and shove Holmes away, but he couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like—that clever tongue stroking, teasing. He felt himself start to get hard at the thought. He looked at Holmes’s face, expecting to see that taunting smirk, but there was no sign of mockery there. Holmes’s expression was serious, questioning.

Before Watson quite realized what he was doing, his hands were fumbling with his belt buckle. Immediately Holmes was pressed close again in a hot, lingering kiss. He slid one hand up the back of Watson’s shirt then traced a line down the valley of his spine. When his fingers reached Watson’s waistband, he slipped his hand down inside, sliding one finger between his buttocks. Watson jumped, and his hands clutched at the sides of Holmes’s shirt. Holmes chuckled, low in his throat. Then he bent his head to nip at Watson’s neck and pressed one finger in to rub at his arsehole.

“Have you ever been with a man?” Holmes said into Watson’s ear.

Watson shook his head. He wanted to move away from Holmes’s probing finger, but when he tried it merely pressed his now fully erect cock into Holmes’s hip.

“Perfect,” Holmes whispered. He pulled his hand out of Watson’s jeans and fell to his knees. Looking up into Watson’s eyes, he slowly slid down the zipper down and tugged at the waistband of Watson’s boxer briefs, making his breath come in uneven gasps. Waiting was excruciating. Watson closed his eyes, then he felt hands grasp his hips and, finally, the warmth of Holmes’s lips on his cock.

Holmes took Watson into his mouth gradually, his tongue sliding along underneath, until almost the entire length was surrounded in wet heat. Then Holmes pulled away just as slowly, sucking forcefully as he drew back. He stopped when just the head remained in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until Watson groaned. Watson’s legs felt warm and liquid. He was afraid he might fall if it weren’t for Holmes’s hands clamped tight on his hipbones, holding him steady. Holmes’s mouth enveloped Watson’s cock again, and Watson cried out. He grabbed Holmes’s head, wanting to thrust, but Holmes’s grasp kept him still.

Holmes suddenly pulled away.

“What is it?” Watson whispered.

“So eager,” Holmes teased.

Watson looked at Holmes, wondering if he should be wary. Holmes stood and kissed Watson, then pushed him back. Watson frowned. Holmes followed and kissed him again, this time reaching around to squeeze his arse.

“To the bedroom?” Holmes asked, his lips still against Watson’s.

Watson nodded, not opening his eyes, pressing his mouth against Holmes’s again, pushing his tongue inside. It took another gentle push to make Watson move. When they entered the bedroom, Holmes pulled Watson close for another kiss. Watson could feel Holmes’s erection through their layers of clothing. He wanted to feel more. After pulling his own T-shirt off over his head, he tore at the buttons over Holmes’s chest and slid his hands under the fabric, taking in Holmes’s taut, lean form—he didn’t have a bit of spare flesh on his body.

Holmes gave him only a moment to touch before pushing him down on the edge of the bed and kneeling to take his cock in his mouth again. Watson moaned at the feeling. Holmes tongue was teasing the tip, and his hand slid up Watson’s thigh, coming to rest between his legs at the thick denim seam. It made Watson wonder how far he would let Holmes push him.

Watson’s belt and zipper were getting in the way. He brought his legs together so that Holmes would move away, then stood to kick off his shoes and peel off his jeans. In only a moment Watson was standing naked. Holmes stared at him and, just as Watson was beginning to feel uncomfortable, started to pull at his own clothes.

Watson perched on the edge of the bed as before but Holmes grabbed his arm and spun him around to face the bed, pushing him up onto it. Uncertain, Watson moved slowly, barely getting one knee onto the mattress before Holmes was close behind him, pressing him facedown onto the bed. Holmes lay down on top of him, his cock lined up with the cleft of Watson’s arse, moving his hips slowly, sliding his cock up and down. Watson was frozen, tense beneath him.

Holmes kissed Watson’s neck. “God, I want to fuck you,” Holmes whispered.

Watson couldn’t respond.

“Please.” Holmes was still rubbing his cock against Watson, now pressing more forcefully with his hips. “Please, let me fuck you.”

Holmes slid down, and his cock began to push between Watson’s legs, sliding across his perineum, nudging against his testicles. “I know we’ve been having fun,” Holmes said. He seemed to be trying to recapture his confident, teasing banter, but Watson heard some uncertainty there. “But I promise you, this will be even better.”

Watson remembered Holmes’s finger pressing so intimately before. It had felt so intrusive, too much, but had also brought his cock from mildly aroused to rock hard and leaking in seconds.

Holmes kissed Watson ear. “Please,” he said again. Now his voice was gruff and urgent.

Watson nodded. Holmes stopped for a moment, as if he didn’t quite believe it. “Yes,” Watson whispered. Holmes bit down on his shoulder and thrust his hips several times, grinding Watson into the bed. Then Holmes was up and across the room, digging through a bureau drawer. Watson had a glimpse of Holmes’s entire body, wiry and quick, before Holmes climbed back onto the bed.

Watson was still lying on his stomach, and Holmes propped himself up on one elbow on his left side. He leaned down to kiss Watson and stared for a moment, his eyes looking almost feverish. His hand stroked down Watson’s back and over his arse, stopping on his thigh. Watson tried to stay relaxed, but he knew his muscles had tensed.

Holmes moved to rest his head on Watson’s shoulder, and Watson could feel Holmes’s hard cock pressed against his hip. Rather than making him more nervous, that undeniable evidence of Holmes’s desire was reassuring. There was so much about Holmes that Watson found difficult to trust—he seemed to be performing a role with almost every sentence he uttered, but he couldn’t be faking this. He wanted Watson.

Holmes’s hand withdrew, and Watson turned his head, even though he knew he could see nothing at this angle with Holmes blocking his view. Watson felt Holmes’s fingers return and touch his leg, cool and slippery with lubricant. He took a deep breath and concentrated on relaxing, and he was surprised how easily Holmes slipped a finger inside. They were both still for a moment, and then Holmes began to move his hand slowly. Watson immediately relaxed. It was good. Very good. He let out a sigh, and Holmes pressed a bit deeper. He whispered into Watson’s ear. “All right?”

“God, yes,” Watson answered. He moved his right leg to the side, giving Holmes more room to move, and Holmes made a noise in his throat, pushing his hips forward and pressing his cock into Watson’s left thigh. Holmes slid a second finger in beside the first, and Watson moaned.

Holmes stilled and whispered, “Stop?”

Watson couldn’t answer. He found himself tilting his hips, pushing back onto Holmes’s hand.

“Oh, yes,” Holmes breathed, and his hand pushed more forcefully, his fingers sliding and shifting. Watson could not keep still. His cock slid over the soft, worn cotton of the sheets, and it was too much—he needed to move away or he would finish too quickly. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees.

The new position allowed Holmes’s fingers to press more deeply, and they grazed Watson’s prostate, sending a shock of sensation through Watson’s body. He cried out and pushed back, but the angle was wrong, or Holmes’s fingers weren’t quite long enough, and Watson moved and shifted his hips in vain, unable to find that intense feeling again.

“Now,” Watson whispered. Holmes stopped moving, and Watson groaned in frustration. “Please, now.”

Holmes was still frozen. “But—”

“I’m ready,” Watson insisted. “Now.”

Holmes slowly pulled his hand away, and Watson let out another frustrated sound. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw Holmes fumbling with the condom packet. When it slipped from Holmes’s hands onto the bed, Watson reached for it and tore it open with his teeth. Holmes raised one eyebrow as he took the condom back from Watson, but his expression turned more serious as he put it on.

Watson closed his eyes and let his head hang down between his shoulders, willing himself to stay relaxed. He wasn’t nervous exactly, and he understood the mechanics involved. He knew this could be amazing, but the few moments it took for Holmes to move behind him seemed to last a ridiculously long time.

Holmes put a gentle hand on Watson’s hip, then Watson felt Holmes’s cock against him, pushing slowly in. There was more pressure than Watson had expected, and he concentrated on breathing evenly. When the discomfort grew to be too much, Watson couldn’t help but gasp, and Holmes immediately stopped.

Watson shifted his knees apart. Holmes inched in further, panting. After a pause, Holmes pressed in completely, letting out a strangled groan. He pulled away and thrust back in, and the discomfort faded. Watson pushed back with his hips, and Holmes’s cock nudged his prostate.

Watson couldn’t breathe. It was so much better than he’d imagined.

He wanted Holmes to stop being so terribly careful. He leaned forward then drove himself back again without hesitation, his head spinning.

“Stop,” Holmes said, an edge to his voice. “Don’t move… Please.”

Watson froze and waited until he heard Holmes start to breathe again. It was a relief to learn that Holmes was as close to losing control as he was.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Holmes gasped.

Watson smiled but it seemed out of place to be grinning. He pressed his lips together and waited. Holmes’s hands came to rest on Watson’s hips. Then he began to move, fucking Watson slowly, letting him feel every inch of his cock. He seemed to know the exact right angle, the perfect spot, and he thrust into Watson relentlessly, starting a shock wave of pleasure with every movement.

Watson’s arms were shaking. He didn’t want to stop—he was so close, but he couldn’t hold himself up any longer. He fell onto the bed, and Holmes stayed with him, still thrusting, driving him into the mattress. Watson moaned, the pressure on his cock pushing him over the brink, and he came, a surge of heat, so intense. He was lost in the feeling.

Watson felt Holmes collapse on top of him, and only then did he realize that Holmes had come too. Holmes’s body seemed almost boneless, and he slid to one side, his head on Watson’s arm.

“We’re upside-down,” Holmes noted after several silent minutes.

Watson turned, and Holmes’s head slid down onto the bed. Glancing at his feet, Watson saw the headboard. Their heads were pillowed on the blankets bunched up at the bottom of the bed. He looked at Holmes, who was grinning, sprawled out on the sheet.

“Everything’s upside-down,” Watson answered.

Holmes looked at him, obviously concerned. Watson mustered a sheepish smile. He hadn’t meant to sound so glum. He actually felt wonderful, but that very fact was troubling.

“Sorry. I’ve never done this before,” Watson confessed.

“I thought we’d already established that.”

“No, I mean with a stranger.”

Watson turned away slightly, pulling his leg out from under Holmes’s. He bent his knee and put his foot flat on the bed, making a kind of wall between them. He didn’t want to leave just yet, but he couldn’t be quite so close. He was grateful that Holmes let him move away without comment or question. After a pause, Watson felt a feather-light touch on his upraised leg. He glanced down and saw Holmes’s fingers on the tangle of scar tissue by his knee.

“Oh.” Watson sighed. “Yes, my souvenir from Afghanistan.”

Holmes was frowning. Watson smiled and tried to keep his tone light, not wanting the mood to deteriorate even more.

“I joined the army to pay for medical school,” Watson explained. “I suppose I never really believed I’d be sent to war. We’re not exactly empire building anymore, are we?”

“What happened?” Holmes asked in a whisper.

Watson’s shoulder twitched in an involuntary shrug. “Shrapnel. The unit I was assigned to was moved. While we were in transport we ran into some landmines.”

“But you’re all right now,” Holmes said. His voice was so earnest—such a contrast to the smug, teasing way he’d spoken before. “You don’t even have a limp.”

“Oh, I’m a miracle of modern medicine,” Watson answered. “Two surgeries, a few months of physical therapy, and I’m as good as new. I’ve got a couple of pins in there. They gave me a special card to show at airport security and everything. I can feel it when it’s going to rain, but other than that it doesn’t bother me.”

Holmes ran his hand over Watson’s knee. The gesture was almost tender, Watson thought, and he didn’t know what to make of that. When Holmes snuggled close again, Watson decided not to pull away. It felt less awkward now somehow. Watson let out a huge yawn.

“You should sleep,” Holmes suggested.

“I can’t. I have to be at the hospital at two o’clock, and before that—” Watson flinched, remembering Mary. He could not let himself think about her at that moment.

“What is it?” Holmes asked.

“Nothing,” Watson said. “I had an errand to run, but it can wait. It’s not important.”

For several moments Holmes did not speak. Watson was sure it was painfully obvious that he was lying.

“Good,” Holmes finally said. “Then you can sleep. I’ll wake you in plenty of time.”

Watson paused to consider the idea. He knew he should leave, but then his eyes fell closed of their own accord. Within moments he was fast asleep.

*****

After Holmes gently shook Watson’s shoulder to wake him, his hand lingered. Watson was still lying upside-down on the bed, a light blanket covering the lower half of his body. He could not believe that he had slept so soundly. It seemed that no time had passed. He told himself it was purely physical—the relaxation that comes on after sexual release.

After a stretch, Watson looked up at Holmes and said, “Your bed is very comfortable.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“Then why aren’t you in it?”

Holmes looked surprised. He pulled his hand away, frowning slightly. “Frankly, I didn’t know how you’d react when you woke.”

Watson felt an irrational need to make Holmes feel better and grabbed his hand. “I’m reacting very well. Now come here.”

Holmes crawled onto the bed and settled himself next to Watson, who immediately pulled him in for a kiss. When they separated, Watson could feel Holmes’s eyes studying him.

“Stay,” Holmes said.

“I can’t.”

“You could call in sick.”

“Doctors aren’t allowed to get sick,” Watson said.

“Then come back later.”

Watson didn’t answer. Holmes was so eager, and Watson didn’t like how much that pleased him.

Holmes asked, “Do you have to work in the morning as well?”

“No,” Watson admitted. “Not until Friday afternoon.”

“There you are then,” Holmes said, running his hand down Watson’s body, over his hip, and down his thigh, pushing the blanket away. “We can have all night, then tomorrow you can sleep all day in my comfortable bed if you like.”

Watson closed his eyes. He was starting to get hard from Holmes’s touch. He hoped Holmes wouldn’t notice. Grabbing Holmes’s wandering hand, Watson brought it to his mouth for a kiss.

“This is wildly inappropriate. I’m your doctor, after all.”

“No, you’re not. You discharged me,” Holmes pointed out. “I’m no longer under your care. Officially.”

“But I won’t be able to leave the hospital until late.”

“I’ll wait up for you.”

“But it will be very, very late,” Watson insisted. “And I have to go home to feed Gladstone.”

“Who is Gladstone?”

“My bulldog.”

Holmes laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You have a bulldog.”

“Why is that funny?”

“They’re bred to latch on and not let go.” Holmes explained, poking Watson in the ribs with one finger. 

“What does that have to do with—”

“You and your questions,” Holmes scolded. “You latch on too.”

“What?”

“Go home and get your dog. Bring him with you. It’s not as though he can make any more of a mess here.”

“Wait,” Watson said. “What do you mean ‘my questions’? Do you mean at the hospital? I was your doctor.”

“Yes, ‘was.’ I’m glad you are willing to admit that our doctor-patient relationship is now decidedly in the past.”

Watson sighed at the interruption. “I had to understand what had happened. If you hadn’t been so evasive, I wouldn’t have been suspicious.”

Holmes propped himself up on one elbow to frown down at Watson. “You’ll have to forgive my not being a more skillful liar. I was not at my best after being hit with a tire iron.”

“So you did know what they hit you with,” Watson accused.

“What does it matter?”

“Why couldn’t you simply answer my questions?”

Holmes frowned at Watson. “Because whatever your skills as a physician, I doubt that in the course of your duties you’ve ever had occasion to acquire a security clearance of any kind.”

“Security clearance?” Watson asked. “Why—?” 

“Good God,” Holmes said. He laughed, but the exchange was clearly frustrating him. “I explained that I wasn’t at my best. Must there be so many questions? I seduced you in the first place just to throw you off your bloody questions.”

Watson was certain that Holmes was joking but was surprised that he felt truly hurt by the words. He forced a smile, but Holmes was too sharp to miss Watson’s initial reaction. He pressed his forehead against Watson’s temple and whispered into his ear. “That was merely a convenient excuse. I wanted you from the moment I saw you.”

Watson didn’t know how to answer. Holmes’s intensity gave him the oddest feeling. He looked away. In the silence he could hear a clock ticking, and it made him think of the time. He looked at his watch. He had less than a half hour to get to the hospital. “I really must go.”

Gathering up his scattered clothing, Watson tried to think of something to say that would be both comforting and noncommittal. He decided it would be better not to say anything at all. Once Watson was dressed, Holmes followed him out of the bedroom and leaned on a bookshelf. Watson hovered in the doorway. He wondered if he should try to give Holmes a kiss.

“Goodbye then,” Watson said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Holmes only nodded. Watson went slowly down the stairs and out the front door. Once he was across the street, he looked back up at Holmes’s window. Holmes was peering out, and his expression was so dejected that Watson almost gave in to the urge to rush back up and reassure him, but it would be too ridiculous.

Instead he waved cheerfully. Holmes lifted a hand in response, but somehow the gesture made him seem even more forlorn. Watson made himself turn and walk away. When he got to the corner he looked back again, but the sun was reflecting off the windowpanes, and he couldn’t see whether Holmes was still watching.

Waiting on the platform, Watson glanced at his watch every few seconds. If a train came within five minutes, he could make it to the hospital on time, but he would probably have to run from the station. He heard a train approaching and relaxed. He would not be late.

As he fell into a seat, Watson noticed a small metal sign attached to the wall near the door across the aisle. The top screw was missing, making the sign hang down from the bottom screw, inverted.

 _Upside-down_ , Watson said to himself. And the thought made him smile.

The End


End file.
